He's Got You Helpless
by starhawk2005
Summary: PWP in 2nd person, Cameron's POV.


**He's Got You Helpless **

**Author: starhawk2005**

**Summary: PWP in 2nd person, Cameron's POV.**

**Disclaimer: I don't own House, and it ain't fair. He'd have seen SO much more action than he did in canon, if I owned him. His loss. *snicker*  
Beta: katakombs!  
Author's Notes: So not canon. Too bad. Maybe on HBO some day? Please, David Shore? *waves cash***

You knew this was coming. He'd had that _wicked_ gleam in his amazing baby blues all day, a look that you knew from past experience, one which meant that he was in the mood to play some bedroom games in the very near future. You tried to focus on the case, instead of the sweet anticipation coiling in your belly, but it was damned difficult. Kind of hard to focus when one's panties are soaked – it's _very_ distracting, after all.

And when you came over to his place, there'd been a smirk on his face nearly the entire night. All through dinner. All through his mandatory watching of 'GeneralHospital', the episode that he'd TiVo'd earlier that day. You didn't even _see _the soap, you were too busy contemplating a different show, one that'd been running inside your head the whole time, wondering what kind of deliciously evil plans he had in store for you.

And now that his show is done, he seems ready to get that other kind of 'show' – the one you were contemplating - on the road. He switches off the TV and turns to fix you with an intense stare. "_Those._ They're in my way. Lose 'em, _now,_" he orders, waving his cane to indicate your clothing.

You know better than to hesitate, when he gets _that _tone in his voice. Making him wait just means that he'll make _you_ wait, and you think you'll combust if he doesn't _touch_ you soon. So you just take everything off right there, letting it all fall into an untidy pile on the couch, wondering if he notices the wet spots on your panties, and you follow him as he thumps his way into the bedroom ahead of you. Feeling that coiling in your belly again, the excitement building in your veins. Anticipating the pleasures to come.

He tells you to lie down on the bed on your back, and you do, a blush heating your face at the thought of how exposed you're going to be in short order. He rummages around in the bedside table until he finds both sets of fur-lined leather cuffs, and the nylon rope he usually uses. No matter how many times you've let him do this to you, there's always that initial flash of apprehension, of anxiety, wondering how far he'll push you, wondering if he'll choose to take _complete_ advantage of your helplessness, your vulnerability, _this_ time. Wondering how far you'll let him go, if he does.

But you also know that you could say no. Not that you ever _have_, but you _could_.

And besides, at the same time, you _love_ it when he takes control like this. You're so hot for him right now, and you're sure _he_ knows it. Your erect nipples, the wetness between your legs, the flush starting around your neck and shoulders, all announce your willingness to surrender, to give in. You want him to control you – at least in the bedroom – as much as he wants to have that control.

When he's done binding you, he lowers himself to sit on the bed beside you. Your arms are stretched out above your head on the mattress, wrists cuffed to the bedpost, and your legs held open by similar cuffs on your ankles. But he's not done.

Sometimes, he blindfolds you. Sometimes, he just orders you to close your eyes, and to keep them closed. This time is one of the latter times.

You _hate_ being predictable, but it's inevitable that when he first touches you, that you'll gasp and jump a little against your bonds. He chuckles low in his throat, a sound husky and dark, his touch sweeping all over you. His hands are warm and strong and roughened from using his cane, sliding all over you like coarse sand. And you arch into his touch as much as you can, squeezing your eyes shut so as not to disobey, trying not to whimper as his hands avoid all your most sensitive spots…for the moment. And the same conflict arises inside you, because as much as you hate him torturing you this way, you _love_ it at the same time, knowing that when he finally does give you what you need, your surrender will be that much more powerful.

The bed shifts as he moves, and you soon feel his cheek against yours, more of that sand texture as he lets your flesh rub together. You feel his lips next, soft dry skin brushing over your cheek, and then he's moving lower, tormenting you, letting you feel the rasp of his stubble on your throat, your collarbone, your upper chest. God, you're _so_ wet, you _need_ his touch so much. But then he pauses, making you wonder what's coming next, making you wonder if he's going to continue this delicious torment, or if he'll work to find some new way of making you _squirm_.

You wait, and wait, and _wait_. You hear that deep throaty chuckle again, feeling him shift himself lower down on the bed. And then his stubble rasps over one of you nipples, sharp prickles making you gasp yet again. But before the discomfort even has time to properly register in your jumbled thoughts, his mouth is on you, his dexterous tongue cooling the ache, and you groan, "Greg, _please_."

"Such a polite bedmate. Your parents taught you good manners, didn't they, Allison?" He leans over you and across you. You can feel the soft worn fabric of his band tee shirt brushing over your belly, even that accidental touch like fire along your excited nerves, and then he's at your other nipple. He exhales slowly, and you squirm at the hot moist breath on your skin, and then you have to bite your lip against a cry as he nips. And then he soothes you again with his tongue.

You feel him leave the bed entirely. Your eyes want to open, you want to see what he's doing. You _know _he's not done with you yet. And you don't want him to be done, or you'd probably _kill_ him. But you fight to keep your eyes closed, struggle against yourself to obey him. Those were the rules you'd both agreed upon, and now you have to abide by them. Or face the consequences.

The bed dips again, this time between your legs, and you can't help tensing a little, waiting to see what he'll do, where he'll touch you, and how. Again, there is that inevitable startle response from you, and an answering chuckle from him, as his nails now scrape gently along the insides of your thighs. You arch your back and moan, not caring what kind of spectacle you're making of yourself, just wanting him to soothe the wet ache between your legs, wanting him to take you, hard and relentless, just the way he knows you like it.

His fingertips are against your outer lips, first brushing, and then pressing against your skin, one at a time, as if he's playing music on your flesh, and you have to bite your lip again, to keep from begging him to move inward, to touch you _harder_, to take you _now_….because you know that if you _do_, he'll just go even…..more….._slowly_…..Bastard.

He moves in closer, you can feel his tee shirt brushing against your skin again. And you're still biting your lip, trembling with your need as he spreads you slowly open, groaning as his breath falls hot on your exposed clit. You think he's going to make you _wait _again, but not this time. Instead, his mouth is suddenly on you, his stubble burning against your delicate skin, pressure building as his hot tongue shoves deep into you.

Deliberately, you're sure, he avoids touching your clit, instead slurping noisily everywhere else. He takes his time, ignoring your urgent pleas, your fruitless attempts to squirm and get his mouth right where you crave it. And after long moments have passed and you're still left needy and unsatisfied, without even realizing it, your eyes snap open and you glare at him. A woman can only _take_ so much.

You realize a split second later what you just did – what he _made_ you do - and you squeeze your eyes shut again, hoping that he didn't notice. But of _course_, he did. He's the most perceptive and observant person you've ever known, always picking up on the most tiny and seemingly inconsequential of details, and this time that ability of his is working against you.

"Bad girl. You broke the rules." He lets go of you, and you feel the bed shifting again as he repositions himself. "You know what I have to do."

Again, you have to fight the urge to beg, although this time, you'd be begging him not to punish you. But again, you know he won't listen. This is what the two of you agreed on. And you _also_ know that he'd never really hurt you. And that there's always your safeword. Still, you can't help feeling a little anxiety. Normally, you get your punishment from him in the form of a good old-fashioned bare-assed spanking (yum), but if that's what he intends to administer right now, he'll have to untie you first.

You find out what he has planned for you mere moments later, your left thigh jerking in reaction as he slaps it. Not very hard, not even half as hard as he normally spanks your ass, but the inner thigh area is tender and it _stings_. You cry out, but the sting is already changing, seeming to go up your leg and right to your clit, turning into an erotic warmth. Not that this prepares you at _all _for the next slap, this time on your right inner thigh. And you can't help but jump and cry out again. He's still not using all of his considerable strength, not even close – he's not a brute, except perhaps with his _words_ – but those few moments of sting and pain are enough to make your eyes water, even as the sting changes to heat, even as you feel that distinctive _pull_ in your belly. The feeling that tells you that your surrender is coming on. And you remember, as you always do at this point, exactly why you agreed to let him do this to you. You remember, after that initial shock has passed, just how _good_ it feels.

Two more slaps, one on each inner thigh, each slightly harder and higher up on your leg than before, and you're so _wet_, throbbing and aching, and you want him _so_ badly. If you weren't tied down, you'd probably pounce on him like some sexually-enraged jungle cat. But there's nothing you can do. He touches your reddened flesh, his caresses tingling over the warm aftermath of those stinging slaps, and you strain against the ropes. You strain and pull, but you can't get free. And you beg him to _take_ you, to give you what you need.

He must be feeling _generous_ tonight, because you haven't been begging him for very long at all, before you feel his hands tighten almost painfully around your sore thighs, and he leans in. There's the sandpaper brush of his stubble against your heated clit, and then he's sucking on you, harder and harder, drawing on you, and that _pull_ in your belly suddenly becomes an irresistible force, drawing you into your climax, heat and tingle and light racing through you, and you can't resist calling out his name, knowing that he's bound to you as surely as he's bound you to him, bound you against his bed…

You come down from the heights, but aftershocks of pleasure are still spiking through you at random intervals. And you lie there, sweaty and trying to catch your breath, eyes still closed lest he punish you again, hearing the rustling of cloth as Greg sheds his clothes. You're still feeling the occasional pleasurable aftershock as he slides into you, and you gasp at the pleasure/pain of his sudden unexpected invasion, feeling yourself stretch around him. But you wouldn't have denied him, not for an instant. Even if he'd _left_ you the choice. He moves his cheek against yours again, rasping, _burning_. And then he's laughing directly into your ear, low and mocking and sexy: "_Come_ again?"

He's got you helpless…but that's _exactly_ where you want to be.


End file.
